


Never Give You Up

by TrashyTime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: But especially poor Yen, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, Discussion of Castration, Dom/sub, Geralt can not consent, Horror, M/M, Master/Pet, Mental rape, No Beta : We die like Witchers, None happens in this fic, Partner Betrayal, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Psychological Horror, could be read as, nothing graphic, on so many levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27997830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashyTime/pseuds/TrashyTime
Summary: Geralt can't remember anything before Emhyr. And after an assassination far from home, he is offered the chance to never again worry about being forced to remember anything but how he is Emhyr's loyal assassin.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 7
Kudos: 33
Collections: Consent Issues Exchange 2020





	Never Give You Up

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbitdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitdragon/gifts).



> Warning for all those coming to this, YES this has spoilers. Yes Geralt never remembers his life. Yes he is happy about this. 
> 
> Yes, Yen gets to carry it all. No Geralt will never understand what and who she is and was. Yes this is intended to be read as horror. If I succeed it can give you all the feels for Yen, or Geralt or... whoever. (I finished writing this very much feeling more horror for Yen than Geralt, in this one. Despite, yanno, how it ends.)
> 
> Started writing this as a treat a while back. Finally had a chance to polish it off. Hope Hobbit likes it!

Geralt groaned as he rolled his shoulder. There was a hitch under the edge of the shoulder-blade, his arm having taken the brunt of that mage’s spell before he could finish decapitating the misbegotten King. Unlike the head in his bag, the Emperor he was looking forward to seeing soon would never let him or his people down. 

Geralt still couldn’t remember his life before this current year. It was all a blank, which was awful on so many levels. His body still remembered moves that marked him out as one of the most skilled assassins and guards in the whole of the empire, yet his mind knew only what he had experienced since he awoke to being fished from a river. 

The soldiers had helped him while he was disoriented, hustling him to his Emperor’s side. Geralt had known, even without his lord ever saying a word, that there was something far more between them than simple servant and Master. No noble, especially the Emperor himself, would personally nurse a simple servant. No matter how skilled he is as an assassin, the only thing that could explain such tenderness was a relationship far deeper and more meaningful than any but family. 

Geralt had been the one to finally ask, to finally lean up and kiss those far too gentle fingers where they trailed along in his hair. To kiss that fleshy base of the palm where ink dares not smudge the base of the thumb. That vulnerable swell calling to his lips like a forgotten song, and to hear and see that hitch in breath. To watch those eyes widen then darken, had felt powerful. 

Geralt had to adjust himself in the cage he wears when on missions. He is so grateful his Emperor cares for him enough to help keep him from too many distractions while on an assasination for him. The way he throbbed in the cage was exquisite. That he was always so hard and ready was a blessing when he was serving in bed, but the temptation to take his Emperor up on the offer of removing the distraction was ever more tempting with every time he was apart from his side. 

Geralt let his thumb trace the edge of his balls through his armor as he adjusted himself again. It was always such a torture, when he was coming back from his tasks. The wait to see Emhyr again always felt an eternity. 

He wishes he could remember the daughter he had protected for decades, or the trust Emhyr had in him to have entrusted her care to him. But he is also glad he can not remember decades away from his Emperor’s side. While it was humbling to know he had been trusted with the heir to the throne of Nilfgard, had been tasked with keeping her safe and training her to be as strong and skilled as he, the idea of more than a week away from those fingers and gazing on that face was enough to chill his blood. 

Much like the cock, Geralt kept his amnesia for his Emperor’s sake. As Emhyr had gently explained while tracing his many scars, after their first time together that he could remember, the lack of memory was a failsafe because some enemy had tried to torture him for her whereabouts. If Geralt could not remember Cirilla, he could not betray her. And while his cock is a distraction and weakness, it makes Emhyr feel so good to ride it. Geralt shudders, his nipples tightening and cock aching with a throbbing low agony where he keeps trying to harden despite the metal pressing close to it. 

He swears he smells gooseberries and lavender, remembers in a flash something of a woman’s smile or laugh. It must be the agony of being so far from Emhyr for so long. He doesn't want to remember. He doesn't want the bad things he can remember feeling of every one of his previous incidents of remembering anything of the times before Emhyr had welcomed him back to openly being by his side. The pain and degradation and desperate unending loneliness that so obviously filled his time away from his beloved Emperor and the sun that brightens his life. It is stomach churning for him to have any memory at all returning, anymore. All at once he has to face that it is as much or more for himself that he doesn't want to remember, as it is service to his Emperor. 

Geralt turns desperately into the wind. There is little thought but making it stop as he tightens his grip on the reins and guides his black stallion faster towards the meeting point. It is an agonizing hour later when he finally sees the mages, familiar black and gold comforting to him on a bone deep level even as his stomach flips from the icy fingers of dread or possibly fear that stab into his veins for no reason he can fathom. Geralt swings down, giving the unnamed stallion a quick pat on a sweaty flank, then nods to the head of the five court mages and their apprentices. “My memory first, then the portal, please.” He says, before any niceties can be called and exchanged. There is surprise on the Fringilla's face then a nod. 

“How much are you remembering, Geralt?” The kind voice is at odds with the sharp and stern tilt of those full lips. Geralt has always appreciated Fringilla’s candor with him. Her briskness and business like demeanor are a balm in a court so hung up on frivolous time wasting niceties. The dark brown-black of her eyes is piercing where they stab into and through him. 

His voice is thick and his grip on the bag gives away his upset, the knuckles moving from ashen to bone white with the grip he has tightened on the neck of it. “Too much. Please. Make it stronger. I don’t want anything but our Emperor and my sole purpose to clutter my mind. Only in his presence can I find peace, and nothing of my memories is worth distracting from that.” One of the new faces, some new graduate, perhaps, makes a sound at that before being shushed by the other mages. Geralt drops to his knees, kneeling as he always does for this spell. 

“Fringilla, please.” He begs, reminding himself there is never any shame in anything done while serving his Emperor. Anything to serve his Emperor is right, proven time and again by how Emhyr does whatever is best for the people more than the nobles. But in this moment he aches, mind and soul and body. He wants to scream at being made to wait, at how he swears, though he has never met the new apprentice, with her pretty demetrium bangles and earrings, that he knows her. But that can’t be. He shoves in his head at the doors he imagines are all that keep him from a tidal wave he will become lost in. He can't serve as well if he remembers. He uses this as a bulwark to steady himself and redouble his efforts.

He refocuses his eyes on the sharp and stern ones above him. He can’t care about some apprentice, the only mage powerful enough to help is right here. His chest hitches as if he is being crushed in an unseen grip, while his spine tingles as if he is in imminent danger, instincts screaming against bowing his head to any but his Emperor. “Please. I don’t want to remember. Everything I ever remember is awful. It is always terrible and nothing at all like the joy even the dullest moment beside our Emperor brings me.” He lays it out, trying to appeal to her, and impress his sincerity.

The cool dry palm when it cups his jaw, feels like a balm to his flushed face. If Geralt could cry, he is sure there would be wetness to counter the soft papery brush of fingertips over his jaw. “The Emperor’s Wolf.” She says it so softly, peppered with some other tone, maybe mockery. He flinches, something in his memories rattling the chained doors that are breaking in his mind at that word. 

Geralt glares up into her eyes, to hide how that rattled the chains he is so desperately trying to keep from breaking away on the overwhelming chaos that is all he has forgotten. “I am no wild animal. I am the Hound. Loyal and true.” His words are fierce and his fangs are bared as he says them, no attempt to hide them. He is not a man as most men. He is special, unique in his service and loyalty. Far better than some wild halfman from the wastes of the north. He clings to that truth as some ridiculous urge to strike at one of his Emperor's closest mages fills him. His fangs itch with a need to snap- and he is no uncivilized animal that would do so. 

Fringilla’s tone is soft, however her eyes seem to be on that apprentice as she agrees. “So you are, I forget you have earned your place beside our lord. Tell me, will you be finally taking up the Emperor’s offer of having that distraction between your legs removed?” She asks, but she is still not looking at him. 

Maybe the apprentice is an enemy mage. He doesn’t look over. He doesn’t care to recognize her if so. “That is for the Emperor to know, but if it ever displeases him for me to keep it, more than it pleases him to keep it on me, in a heartbeat. I would cut my own throat before I would disappoint him.” He says it fiercely and with absolute conviction. 

Finally those eyes turn back to him, and there is a sort of amused tenderness there. “Yes, you would, wouldn’t you. The only magic on you is that which removes your memories.” She hums, her hands glowing. Then, with a smile she asks, “If I said to kill my apprentice for payment to ensure you never remembered anything but this past year onward, would you?”

Geralt’s brows furrowed, he didn’t look behind him towards the apprentices. They didn’t really matter. “I will only ever kill whomever my Emperor commands or whom threatens him directly and urgently. If I return to him remembering, I will disappoint him, but not as much as I would with having spilled unnecessarily the blood of someone useful whose death alters some plan he has. Any death my Emperor orders, is for the good of all mankind, weighed and measured for the harm and benefit to the empire and all of humanity. There is no shame or burden in filling any order given by our Emperor. There is only the utmost shame in murder for selfish gain.” He says it all as if explaining something to a very slow child. There is a wariness to him, but also he thinks she may be making a point. Emhyr is no northern tyrant king, petty and selfish to allow such needless or pointless waste. 

Perhaps the apprentice was doubting the glory and power of their Empire. Maybe she was from the wretched north, and was barely coming to understand civilization. Geralt snorted slightly at that, some memory struggling to break free despite how he was throwing his all at keeping them stoppered. He winces, then added with a note of the desperation he feels creeping into his voice, “Can we please get on with wiping my memory- I do not want the sack I am carrying to smell of rot when I present it.” Everything in service to his only calling, is no embarrassment. He clings to that truth despite the sweat pearling along his brow from the strain of fighting his own mind. 

Fringilla laughed, her other hand coming up to pet the silken locks of Geralt’s hair, pressing along his smooth cheek on the opposite side as her other hand. 

“Yes, yes, and with the magical reserves of my new apprentice, we will ensure it is many years before it needs to be refreshed again.” She called the other apprentices to bring over the girl. Well, woman. She had wild dark hair and eyes the color of Nightshade blossoms. There was a large demitrium ball in her mouth and she was shaking, Geralt hoped this wouldn’t take too much longer, he was unsure if he could make it, his own body trembling as he struggled against the nonsensical urge to fight like the bound woman was trying to. 

“She’s a pretty flower, despite her poisonous nature, but unlike you, I don’t get to have the pleasure of our Lord’s attentions. She makes a decent enough toy, but sometimes poisonous flowers have other uses.” She lifted her fingers from him and instead carded her fingers into the dark strands near her toy apprentice’s temple. The scent of lilacs and gooseberries filled the little glen as the mere slip of a woman frantically tried to shake free of the hands holding her still for Fringilla. Geralt thought it foolish, even for some obviously enemy mage. None could fight the very sun above them, any more than they could turn away from the glory and beauty of their empire. His vision was wobbling as he kept his stillness in counterpoint to the frenzy across from him. 

The magic that thrummed through the glen was pulsing, wild as it whipped through the air, the heavy words from the ring of mages picking up as he swore he felt… a trickling in the back of his mind. As if all the memories he had wanted repressed were being moved. He swore he could feel them gathering and spilling out into the hand glowing on his own temple, a match to the hand glowing on the struggling woman's temple. Slowly the crying woman’s hair was going white, her skin paling and going ashy over the rich earthen tones it had before. She went from vibrant to something washed out, while Geralt felt lighter with every pulsing burst of magic. 

When the magic cut out there was- nothing in the back of his mind. There was no weight, no locks, no pain, nothing at all. He closed his eyes and breathed deep, chest expanding without a hitch. Even his soul felt lighter by half. He beamed up at Fringella, feeling giddy. “It’ll last for years?” The words were glowing with his exuberant and unrestrainable hope.

Fringilla smiled, letting the sobbing woman, now looking aged and old, fall boneless and defeated behind her. The loyal apprentices all stepping well away from the fallen enemy. Steady and comforting hands cupped Geralt’s chin and cheeks again, still cold and papery dry compared to his flushed and grinning face. “For a lifetime. Until Yennifer’s last breath, you won’t remember a thing. You both had your wishes granted. Hers to have herself back fully, to not be tied to any other living being, and you to be only tied to your Emperor.” Fringella looked nearly viciously satisfied and smug as she helped Geralt stand before turning to walk over to the runes set up for amplifying a portal. 

Geralt was a little confused, he knew he was missing something, but it wouldn’t affect him. He looked at the rapidly aged woman, and stooped down, stopping to brush back the hair that was now a match for his own. “I don’t know how your wish was tied into my memories. I don’t know what horrible things you did to deserve all that Demitrium, but know you have made me truly happy, today. Thank you, despite how you may not have been willing in this, you have done me a great service, and I wish you a long life.” He then walked away without another thought to the enemy wretch behind him, eager to return to his Emperor with all the good news. 

When he presented the head, he could not contain his giddy delighted grin, nor the bounce in his step. His reward for his service, was being informed he would be granted the prized spot of the cushion beside his beloved's feet. Whenever he was at court, he would be at his Sun's feet and in his Emperor's shadow. He was further informed that from now on he wouldn’t need to go so far afield. The Empire had need of his services at his beloved's side more than the world had need of him in distant soil. 

Emhyr kept him knelt beside him the entire night, feeding him morsels off his own plate, sips from the same chalice he drank of. Geralt reeled from what was unsaid, the giddy delight that this would be his daily reward for most of the rest of the nights to come. He purred with delight as those strong fingers set to caressing his neck, tracing up and down his collar bones, across the soft underside of his chin and the column of his eagerly offered up neck. Never was there a flinch, based off some forgotten memory toying with him despite no recollection of why he suddenly was upset. Not once was there anything but delight as he pressed his temple closer to the warm thigh that offered such comforting musky smells of Emhyr with every slow and deeply calmed breath. The sex that followed his finally being pulled to his feet was mind blowing in it’s intensity. 

Geralt, when sleep came for him, was cradling his beloved Emhyr close. Filled with dreams, not of strange scents or forgotten people, but of his deep and abiding love for the man who is now truly his everything. When he wakes before his beloved Sun and Emperor, he has never wanted anything more than exactly what he has. His fingers touch his throat and he corrects himself. Maybe, a collar. A good hound is always marked as owned with one, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> All mistakes my own. Please feed the author. Please do not bring negativity into the comments. 
> 
> Yes I used show characters, because I like them, and it suited my desires.
> 
> Yen has all of Geralt's memories from before the Pogrom where they both were killed. Everything. From his first to his very last. Everything that made the man she loved and hated, is now inside her. There is no magic binding her to him, because everything that made him, is now inside her. She is whole. But she now has all of his trauma as well as her own. And a little new just as a cherry on top.


End file.
